Between the trenches of war among the
    shell holes and pieces of men strewn about
    there is a patch of grass untouched to
    remind us of good old days in pubs where
    we shared pints with one another and spoke
    of the excitement of war's engagement how
    we scatter the enemy and in a month plant
    our flag on a hill of their blood and bones.
    Men and horses dead on the barbed wire the
    smell becomes normal rats eat us in sleep.